#matchbox
The matchbox
was hers—
bright red
with a tiger on it,
its head tilted
like it knew the ending.
One match left.
He kept it
in the drawer
beside loose buttons,
an eye drop bottle
half full,
a packet of salt
from a meal
they never finished.
He never lit it.
Not when
the bulb blew
above the stove.
Not when
monsoon took the power
three nights straight.
He’d reach—
then pause.
Then close the drawer
softly.
Until
the day
her number stopped ringing.
He struck it.
Once.
It flared—
brief, bright,
then gone.
The drawer
still smells
like her.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 10:48 PM UTC
And like that
I am lost in you.
The simplest of touch is all it takes.
Lost in that feel good place that beckons our name over and over.
The physical manifestation of what we both know to be true.
The feel of your skin pressed tight against mine.
Our fingers lost in the rhythm.
The Times we've made mistakes like this.
Our lips hesitant.
Reaching out to one another in a pace we can both relate.
You feel me and I know this to be true.
Both of us lost.
Slipping and sliding in reassurance.
Eluding the overwhelming thought that at any moment our eyes will shut tight and our inner fear will dissipate into eruption.
Anticipation built high.
We both brace for the thrill of fire.
A match striking the side of box.
Over and over until we are both consumed.
Blown away in satisfaction.
Neither of us can speak.
The peak of ascension.
And Like that I am lost.
Caressing you until the last ember is blown out
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC